


Beat of my Heart: a Bridget Jones Fic

by eggsbenni221



Category: Bridget Jones's Diary - Helen Fielding
Genre: Drama, Gen, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Other, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-23
Updated: 2013-12-23
Packaged: 2018-01-05 19:20:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1097665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eggsbenni221/pseuds/eggsbenni221
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You have to wonder just how much the legacy of the Darcy name has clung to Mark's family when his teenage daughter announces a planned trip to Brighton with her boyfriend. Features original character Eric and the return of Anne, Emma, and a brief appearance by Bertie the cat! (I'm terrible rubbish at summaries).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beat of my Heart: a Bridget Jones Fic

**Author's Note:**

> Any typographical errors are mine. Apologies if I have missed any.

Beat of my Heart: a Bridget Jones Fic  
By Eggsbenni221  
Words: 9584  
Rating: T (I didn't think one F-bomb plus somewhat steamy scene merited a stronger rating, but I will adjust rating accordingly if advised.  
Summary: You have to wonder just how much the legacy of the Darcy name has clung to Mark's family when his teenage daughter announces a planned trip to Brighton with her boyfriend. Features original character Eric and the return of Anne, Emma, and a brief appearance by Bertie the cat! (I'm terrible rubbish at summaries).

Disclaimer: The author does not own these characters; they are the property of Helen Fielding. No money is being made on this work, and no copyright infringement is intended.

Dedication: to M, for encouraging me to post this despite my fear of it being rubbish.

Author's Note: Any typographical errors are mine. Apologies if I have missed any.

The clock on the bedside table registered 6.15. With a groan, Mark propped himself up on one elbow, wondering how deeply he must have been asleep not to have heard the alarm he had set to wake him at 6.00. Bridget lay curled beside him, her cheek cradled in her palm; the gentle rhythm of her breathing nearly lulled Mark back to sleep. The fact that she'd managed to sleep through his alarm would not ordinarily have surprised him, especially on a Saturday morning. If his habit of rising early generally didn't disturb his wife, she would, on the rare occasions that he neglected to shut off the alarm, voice her protests with a shrillness to rival that of the clock.  
Sighing, Mark cursed his laziness, though of late his usually invigorating Saturday morning exercise routine had left him feeling fatigued and short-of-breath—a sensation that he stalwartly refused to attribute to age. Perhaps Bridget was right; he did need a holiday, but his case load at present was exceptionally demanding. He would find the time when things settled down.  
Ignoring a slight, inexplicable ripple of nausea that passed through him as he sat up, Mark slid from bed and padded to the bathroom, contemplating at least one cup of coffee before his morning run. No sooner had he reached to switch on the light than the rising wave of nausea swept over him with such dizzying force that for a moment he lost all sense of orientation. Forgetting the light, he stumbled into the bathroom, grateful as he fell to his knees that he'd just managed to make it in time. His body shuttering with each violent wretch, he dimly registered the flash of light behind his closed eyelids before he felt the comforting warmth of Bridget's hands—one on his forehead, the other at the back of his neck. He'd just reached up to squeeze her hand in gratitude when his body was wracked with another wave of sickness.  
"It's—I'm—"  
"Shh, don't try to talk," Bridget said gently. "Just let it all out. There, that's it. You'll be all right in a moment." And indeed, a moment later, it had passed as suddenly as it had come.  
Leaning back, Mark cast an apologetic look up at his wife. "I'm sorry I woke you."  
Bridget rested a hand on his shoulder. "Don't be ridiculous. Here. Can you stand?" Mark took her offered hand and got shakily to his feet.  
"Are you all right?" Bridget asked as he moved to the sink to rinse his mouth.  
"I'm perfectly fine," he replied automatically.  
"Stupid question," Bridget mumbled as she handed him a towel. "As if you'd ever admit it if you weren't."  
"I'm really quite all right now," Mark assured her.  
"You don't look it," said Bridget.  
"Thank you for the morning bulletin," he retorted. "In case you haven't noticed, it's hardly 6.00AM."  
"Mark, you look like five kinds of shit."  
Sighing, he dropped onto the edge of the bathtub and rested his head on his hand.  
"I feel like five kinds of shit, if you want the absolute truth." Bridget moved to stand beside him, her blue eyes full of concern. So drained was he from the wave of illness that he didn't resist when she pressed a hand to his forehead.  
"You don't seem feverish," she murmured. "But you still don't look well. Why don't you stay home today?"  
He blinked in confusion. "What?"  
"Weren't you supposed to be having lunch with Giles today? You haven't forgotten, have you?"  
Mark groaned. "Yes, I must confess I had."  
"Why don't you call him to reschedule?" suggested Bridget.  
Mark shook his head. "I can't. This case is pressing, and there's really no need. I'm quite well."  
"Mark, you're not invincible. It isn't a crime to be ill. I'm sure Giles will understand."  
"I'm not ill," Mark said emphatically. "And I haven't missed a day of work because of illness in—"  
"Ever," interrupted Bridget. Mark glared at his wife, but she continued to meet his gaze with her own defiant stare. "You wouldn't technically be missing a day at chambers; it's Saturday. Besides, Anne will never let you hear the end of it if you're sick for the party," she added, referring to the celebration planned for their eldest daughter's eighteenth birthday and approaching departure for university.  
"I'd never let myself hear the end of it," admitted Mark. "Especially considering we've probably spent nearly the cost of a year's tuition planning it."  
Bridget smiled. "You're exaggerating, and in Anne's defense, the party wasn't really her idea."  
"No," agreed her husband. "It was yours, if my memory is correct, and it usually is." It was true; though Mark had naturally wanted to acknowledge his daughter's coming of age in a manner befitting what most of their friends and colleagues had come to expect of the Darcys, he hadn't quite envisioned the debutant-style ball into which Bridget had turned the event. Now, with the party only a week away, the thought of his first-born child coming of age was doing little to alleviate the disquieting reminders of his own advancing years that his body insisted on delivering.  
"I think it's going to make her very happy," Bridget said softly, and Mark nodded. Despite being more possessed of her father's reserve than her mother's exuberance, Anne had taken to the plan with marked enthusiasm.  
"And I know it's making you very happy," he murmured, reaching up to touch Bridget's cheek gently.  
"Yes, and I'd like everything to be perfect, so won't you please consider taking a day off?"  
Mark sighed. "I really mustn't," he insisted.  
"Well," said Bridget, moving toward the door, "I’m going to attempt to get another hour of sleep. I advise you to do the same."  
Mark arched an eyebrow as he rose to follow. "Is that an order, Nurse?"  
"It is," said Bridget, slipping between the sheets and patting the empty space beside her. With a yawn, Mark followed suit; if he was being honest with himself, he really felt in no condition to take his morning jog, so he might do well to have a bit of a lie-in. Climbing back into bed, he snuggled up against Bridget and fell instantly to sleep.

What felt like moments later, his eyes snapped open as thirteen year-old Emma burst into the room.  
"Dad, breakfast!"  
Startled, Mark sat up and rubbed the left-over sleep from his eyes. "For Heaven's sake, Emma. Must you insist on barging in like a bull at a gatepost?"  
"I did knock," replied Emma, looking slightly sheepish. "But I don’t think you heard."  
"Right. Well, what time is it anyway?" Mark glanced at the clock on the bedside table and was shocked to see that it was nearly 9.30. "Why didn't someone wake me sooner?" he asked.  
"Mum said you weren't feeling well. She thought you could do with a bit of a rest. She says she can ring Giles if you'd like and cancel your lunch."  
Mark sighed. "Tell your mother I'm coming down directly," he told Emma. He quickly located his robe and made his way down to the kitchen, where Bridget and Anne were laying the table for breakfast.  
"Morning, Dad," Anne said cheerily, reaching up to give her father a hug. "How are you feeling?"  
"Right as rain, thank you," replied Mark, returning the embrace and scowling at his wife over the top of Anne's blonde head. "Bridget, I'd appreciate it if in future my physical ailments aren't broadcast so insistently. I'm surprised my mother hasn't rung, or have you not yet issued a bulletin to Grafton Underwood?"  
Bridget shrugged. "It won't be my fault if you give yourself a heart attack."  
"I'm in fine physical form, thank you," grumbled Mark. Pouring himself a cup of coffee, he attempted to nudge Bertie from his customary chair, which the cat regularly commandeered in what Mark was convinced was a plot to irritate him. Bertie glanced up, regarded Mark for several seconds, and then recommenced cleaning his whiskers. Admitting defeat, Mark rested his hip against the counter and sipped his coffee.  
"So, what have you girls planned for today?"  
"Emma's going to the pictures with some of her school friends," answered Bridget.  
"Have you done your reading for the day?" asked Mark, turning a stern gaze on his second daughter; structured and orderly as he was, he had insisted that his children spend a portion of each morning of their summer holidays reading. Anne, the family's avid bookworm, had taken naturally to the task; Emma, though regularly making lists and chattering about the many books she wanted to read, had not as yet, to either of her parents' knowledge, finished any of them. Now she pointedly avoided meeting her father's eyes.  
"Emma?" Mark repeated.  
"Dad, it's Saturday," protested Emma.  
"I'm aware of that," replied Mark. "You know the rules."  
Smiling, Bridget brought a plate of toast to the table and set it down beside Mark's coffee. "Em, you aren't going to the pictures until this afternoon. Why don't you go and read a few pages after breakfast?" Emma rolled her eyes.  
"Emma," Mark said sharply. "Don't look at your mother like that. You'll do as you're told." Their tussle was interrupted by a chime from Anne's mobile, alerting her to a text message.  
"That'll be Eric," she said, scooping her phone off the counter. "His family is having a picnic, and he's invited me." Eric Wentworth had been a long-time schoolmate of Anne's and seemed likable enough. Mark had known little of the young man's family until several weeks ago, when the name of Wentworth had unexpectedly come up in conversation when he and Bridget were having dinner with Jude and her husband. Thomas Wentworth, Eric's father, was a top fund manager with Rosings Investments, which was currently embroiled in a with-profits scandal. From what he could remember of what Jude had said, Rosings had encouraged its clients to switch their pension plans, and a number of clients had done so only to discover several weeks later that, as a result of a takeover, they would have received a substantial windfall had they remained with their original plans.  
"It's really quite sad," Jude had said. "Lots of retired couples went it for it and practically lost their savings. It's a pity really how soulless investment banking can make you. Lots of these people forget that they're not just dealing with young whippersnappers. Some of their clients are dear little grannies just lured by the thought of a bit of extra money to make things comfortable. And of course, you know, it doesn't hurt if they throw in a lovely free carriage clock or…set of engraved trivets or something."  
"But it wouldn't be fair to judge Eric by his father," Bridget had pointed out when Mark appeared troubled by this information. This was quite true, of course, though Mark's humanitarian conscience still prickled at the thought.  
"You've certainly been seeing quite a lot of Eric these last few months," he observed, reaching for the marmalade. "Do you intend to keep this up when the summer's over?"  
Anne arched an eyebrow. "Why? Are you thinking of asking Eric to declare his intentions?"  
"No, it's just," Mark paused; when it came to discussing the ins and outs of romantic relationships with their daughters, he typically deferred to Bridget, whose frankness together with her vast array of self-help literature on the subject made her the more suitable go-to parent in such situations.  
As if reading his thoughts, Bridget interjected, "Your father and I just don't want you rushing into anything; you're still young, and it's important to discover who you are as an individual before discovering yourself in relation to someone else."  
"Simply put," said Mark, "I don't want you going off to university with your head in the clouds instead of in your books."  
"If we were attending the same university, that might be a problem, but we aren't, and well," Anne hesitated.  
"Yes?" prompted Mark.  
"Well, since it's come up, Eric's parents thought it might be nice for us to spend a bit of time together before we go off to uni."  
"You already see him practically every day," Mark pointed out.  
"Dad, just hear me out. They've, well, offered to help us pay for a bit of a holiday, you know, as a send-off gift. He's just texted me to remind me to talk to you and Mum about it."  
"Where?" asked Bridget.  
"Brighton."  
"Wh-what?" spluttered Mark, nearly choking on the sip of coffee he'd just swallowed.  
"Brighton," repeated Anne, the corners of her mouth twitching.  
With a groan, Mark dropped his head into his hands. "My daughter wants to go to Brighton. With a boy." Glancing up, he saw Bridget attempting to conceal a smile behind her hand. "And what, pray tell, do you find so amusing?"  
"Oh, nothing," said Bridget, lowering her hand, her eyes sparkling with laughter. "Just, well, it is rather sweet. When would this be planned for?" she asked, turning to her daughter.  
"Does this mean I can go?" asked Anne. In her eagerness, her face so resembled her mother's that Mark almost regretted his next words.  
"I'm afraid not, love," he said gently.  
Anne blinked in surprise. "Why not?" Mark wasn't about to explain that his principles wouldn't allow his daughter to go on a holiday financed by a man who made his money in such an unscrupulous manner, and in any case, that was secondary to the real issue.  
"I'm not comfortable with the idea of you and Eric going off on your own," he said simply.  
"Mark, let's talk it over. Maybe discuss it with the Wentworths. It really is a generous offer, and—"  
"It's out of the question," replied Mark.  
"Dad, is this about that ridiculous investment scandal?" momentarily caught off balance, Mark said nothing. Clever as Anne was, and given that her brain often seemed to operate on the same high-level frequency as his own, he ought to have anticipated that she would have discovered the rationalization behind his refusal. "Yeah, I know about that," she said, seeming to read his thoughts. "I heard you and Mum talking about it when you came home from dinner with Auntie Jude, and besides, Eric's had to put up with hearing about it from all of our friends whose parents were affected by it. He keeps telling everyone his dad didn't have anything to do with it, even though Mr. Wentworth's name keeps popping up in all of the press surrounding it, but nobody will listen. It's been awful for him." Buying time before he had to answer, Mark went to pour himself a second cup of coffee. "Dad, just admit it. This has nothing to do with me and everything to do with the fact that you don't approve of Eric's father."  
"Annie," Bridget said gently, laying a hand on her arm.  
Anne rounded on her mother. "You know I'm right," she hissed. "And it's ridiculous!" Mark stared fixedly at his daughter, feeling utterly helpless. He could count on one hand the number of times he and Anne had truly lost their tempers with one another.  
"Emma," said Bridget, "why don't you go and get your reading done before you have to leave for the pictures?"  
Emma scowled. "But Mum—"  
"Emma, go," said Bridget, in a somewhat sharper tone of voice than she customarily used with the girls.  
"Mark," she said when Emma had reluctantly left the room, "sit down. Let's talk about this rationally. Anne has a point. Let's just—"  
"There's nothing to discuss," said Mark.  
"Mark, really. She's a young woman."  
"Bridget, she's eighteen."  
"I'm also standing right here," interrupted Anne.  
Mark sighed. "Anne, it's not that I don't think this is a lovely and generous gift, but frankly, it's hardly appropriate for a girl of your age."  
Anne rested a hand on her hip and glared at her father. "You'll trust me to go off to uni, be on my own for months at a time, and you can't trust me for a single weekend?"  
"Those are two entirely different scenarios," said Mark, his temper beginning to rise. "I don't wish to discuss this any further. I've made my decision."  
"What decision? You've hardly considered it," protested Anne.  
"Mark, she does have a point," murmured Bridget. "We should really discuss this."  
Mark rounded on her. "I'm sorry, but I won't have my daughter frolicking about Brighton with a boy, entirely unchaperoned. It's out of the question!"  
"I still think this would be open to negotiation if you'd just leave your humanitarian conscience out of the equation," said Anne. The room fell deadly silent. Bridget gazed warily up at Mark, and even Anne seemed to recognize that she'd crossed some invisible line. Mark's hands were now trembling so violently that he set his coffee cup down on the countertop for fear of dropping it.  
"Having my judgment mocked in my own house is not something I'm prepared to tolerate," he said, enunciating each word carefully in an attempt to suppress the tremor of anger in his voice. "Regardless of what you might think, you're still my daughter, and you'll respect the decisions your mother and I make with regard to your well-being. Do I make myself clear?"  
"But Dad—"  
"The answer is no, and that's final. I don't want to hear the subject mentioned again." And with that, Mark turned and abruptly left the kitchen.  
\----------  
Mark leaned back in his chair, gazing contemplatively out the nearby window. Across from him, Giles maintained a companionable silence. Having concluded the business for which they'd met over lunch, the two men lingered over coffee for a few minutes of casual conversation. Following the tense altercation that had occurred in his kitchen that morning, Mark would have preferred a scotch, but he still had a brief to finish when he returned home and, on balance, he chose caffeine over alcohol.  
"So, how's the family?" asked Giles. "Bridget? The girls? All well?" Mark winced at the twinge in his chest that coincided with the thought of his family. "Is anything the matter?" inquired Giles.  
"I—that is, no, nothing in particular," replied Mark; for something to do with his hands, he reached for his coffee and took a slow sip.  
"Forgive me if I seem impertinent," said Giles, "but you look rather under the weather, Mark. You ought to try and have a bit of a rest."  
Mark laughed ruefully. "And whose life would you like me to switch with mine, may I ask?"  
Giles offered a half-smile in response. "Fair point," he conceded. "Pressures of the work. We all know it, of course, but it's the summer. The girls are on holiday. I'm sure a bit of time with them would do you a world of good, especially with Anne heading off to university. Time is short. Not having been blessed with children myself, I'm sure you can appreciate that better than I can."  
"Don't I know it," murmured Mark. "Anne thinks she's 18 going on 25. She's got this boyfriend."  
"Ah, yes, the Wentworth boy. Now where else have I heard that name recently? Wentworth…Wentworth…"  
"In connection with the Rosings scandal, most likely," said Mark.  
Giles nodded. "Yes, that's it."  
"Not that it's any reflection on Eric, precisely," continued Mark. "He seems respectable enough, as teenage boys go, of course."  
"As if you'd settle for less," chuckled Giles.  
"Quite right. We Darcys have our standards to uphold. Anyway, at breakfast this morning she told us they're planning to go on holiday together."  
Giles laughed. "I can just imagine how you reacted."  
"I can't say I'm entirely surprised," admitted Mark. "She's young and in love, or thinks she is, which, when you're 18, amounts to the same thing, essentially."  
"She's always struck me as a level-headed girl," said Giles. "What did Bridget say?"  
"She seemed more inclined to give Anne permission, but she's always been somewhat lenient with the girls. She could sense my reservation though, and she did think we ought to talk about it before rejecting the idea entirely. I must confess I wasn't open to the suggestion."  
"So what are you going to do then?"  
"That," said Mark, "is a bloody good question. I used to think infants should come with an owner's manual, but now I think we'd be better served having one when they're teenagers. How do you discipline a child who isn't really a child, but isn't quite an adult?" Inadvertently Mark's hand went to his chest, endeavoring to massage away the tightness that was suddenly constricting his breath.  
"Mark, are you sure you're quite well?" asked Giles, a look of genuine concern in his kind eyes.  
"I--yes, yes, of course." As Giles signaled for the bill, Mark endeavored to breathe through yet another rising wave of nausea. He'd be all right, he told himself as he rested his head in his hand for just a moment…

\----------  
"Brighton?" Magda gazed at Bridget incredulously for several moments before bursting into laughter. She'd popped round unexpectedly, and the two women sat enjoying a glass of lemonade in the back garden.  
Bridget giggled. "I know. It sounds ridiculous now, but Magda, if you could have seen the look on Mark's face—it was priceless."  
"I can just imagine," said Magda. "He must have done his nut."  
"He practically did. To tell the truth, I've a mind to have a word with him about it later. He did come down rather hard on Anne. It really would've been so much easier if she'd just fallen for your Harry."  
Magda smiled and shook her head. "Now you sound like your mother. In any case, she's a bit young for him right now, don't you think?"  
"She could have…grown into him," suggested Bridget.  
"Bridget, we're talking about my son, not a pair of high heels," said Magda.  
"True," laughed Bridget. "And Eric is really a lovely boy." She reached to refill Magda's glass.  
"I really ought to be going," Magda said apologetically. As the women rose to collect the glasses and the plate of biscuits Bridget had set out, her mobile rang. Hurriedly she fished it out of her pocket.  
"Hello?"  
"Hello, Bridget, this—this is…Giles."  
"Oh, Giles, how are you? Have you finished with my husband?"  
"No, um, that is—I'm, Bridget, this isn't a social call."  
"Oh, of course. Well, if you need to speak to Mark, I'm sure you can reach him on his mobile; he's not back yet, but if he's just left you, I expect he won't' be long." There was a pause on the line, and a crackle of static. An uneasy prickling sensation crept up the back of Bridget's neck. "Hello? Giles?"  
"It's--Bridget, oh dear, I'm—we're…at the hospital."  
"The hospital?" Bridget repeated, speaking the words without comprehending their meaning.  
"Yes, I…I mean, Mark…he—"  
Bridget's hand flew to her throat, and she let out a strangled sound something between a sob and a shriek. "Mark? No, dear God, Giles, what happened? Is he all right?" Silence. "Giles?"  
"He's…they think he's had—"  
"What?" asked Bridget, beginning to hyperventilate.  
"A heart attack."  
\----------  
"Bridget, calm down. You need to calm down. Deep breaths. That's it." Magda knelt in front of the chair into which Bridget had collapsed, sobbing, after ending her phone call with Giles.  
"I h-have to…g-g-go to him! N-now!" she sobbed.  
"Bridget, listen to me," said Magda, rubbing Bridget's hands between her own. "Just listen. You won't be any help to Mark in this state. He's going to need you to be strong." Strong? Mark had always been the strong one; over the years, it seemed, any strength Bridget had ever needed to draw had come from his endless—or what had seemed his endless reserves of it.  
"I d-don't know…what to do!" she hiccupped.  
"You're going to take a few deep breaths, tidy yourself up, and I'm going to drive you to the hospital. Giles did say he would stay until you arrived?" Bridget nodded. "Good. Perfect."  
"The girls," said Bridget, making to rise from her chair.  
"Where are they?"  
"Anne is with Eric, and Emma is at the pictures w-with some friends. Then they're off to a slumber party, but now—"  
"Right, listen. There'll be time to let the girls know. It doesn't pay to tell them anything until you know more."  
"Oh, Magda, I'm so afraid," whispered Bridget.  
Tears welling in her eyes, Magda pulled her friend into an embrace. "I know, honey. I know."  
\----------  
Looking back later, the events of that day would slide in and out of focus in Bridget's memory like an ancient, badly-tuned television. The mad dash to the hospital flashed by in a blur of panic and tears; yet Giles' account of the episode, though it had occurred so frighteningly quick, replayed in slow-motion in Bridget's mind, every detail sharpened to agonizing clarity by her imagination and the thought that she hadn't been there. Clearer than anything, she would remember the doctor's kind, blue eyes and the surprising softness with which he took her trembling hands into his calloused ones.  
"Mrs. Darcy, I'm Dr. Grant. I've been treating your husband since he arrived." Magda's arm tightened around Bridget's shoulders.  
"My husband, is he—is he going to be all right?"  
"The test results show no indication of a heart attack. He did right to treat the incident seriously, of course."  
'Or Giles did,' thought Bridget gratefully. Had Mark been alone—'No, don't think about that. Be grateful he wasn't.'  
"The symptoms he exhibited appeared consistent with a heart attack, but it looks more like a sudden attack of angina, typically brought on by strenuous exertion or high levels of stress."  
"But he's all right?" repeated Bridget, refusing to allow the knots in her stomach to unravel without that reassurance.  
"We're going to monitor him closely over the next 24 hours, but given that your husband is otherwise in excellent physical health, and he has no medical history of steady angina or other cardiovascular issues, we're going to treat this as an isolated incident. I'm going to advise that he take things easy for a few weeks."  
At this, Bridget managed a shaky smile. "If you can convince him to do that, I hope you'll share your secret with me."  
Turning to take his leave, the doctor said, "You can see him if you'd like. He should be settled." Bridget got to her feet, gesturing for Magda to follow.  
"I'll wait here," said Magda. "Mark won't want too much company right now, I imagine. You go and make sure he's all right. I can take you home after you've looked in on him."  
\----------  
Standing at the threshold of the hospital room, Bridget simply stood still for several moments, collecting herself. Mark appeared to be asleep, and in the harsh, glaring hospital lighting, his skin appeared paler than usual. With a deep breath, Bridget stepped into the room. Dropping into a chair beside the bed, she rested her chin in her hands and gazed fixedly at his face. One hand lay atop the sheets, palm up, fingers slightly curled. She could tell from the gentle rhythm of his breathing that he wasn't deeply asleep. Gently, trying not to wake him, she took his hand between both of hers and held it. His fingers closed unconsciously around hers. A hard knot of guilt formed in the pit of her stomach as she stared down at her husband. She might have prevented this, she thought, if only she'd been more adamant—insisted Mark take the day off, or see a doctor. Not that he'd have taken her advice, more than likely, but still she'd have insisted. Then she'd had to make that ridiculous remark over breakfast—that off-hand comment about him giving himself a heart attack. God, how stupid, to joke about a thing like that. If she'd suspected even for a moment—  
"Bridget?" she felt a slight tug on her hand, and when she raised her head, she found Mark gazing blearily at her. "Hi," he whispered.  
"Mark," she breathed. Wisely resisting the temptation to fling her arms around him, she dropped to her knees beside the bed and rested her head against his chest. She listened to the reassuring rhythm of his heart—the familiar lullaby to which she fell asleep each night—and she closed her eyes against the hot sting of tears.  
"You're OK," she cried softly, her arms slipping their way around him in a hug. "Oh God, you're OK. When I found out—when Giles called me—I thought—I was afraid--shit, Mark, you had me worried half to death," she said between gulps, hurriedly wiping her eyes on a corner of the bed sheet.  
"I'm sorry," murmured Mark.  
"How are you feeling?"  
"Tired."  
"Well, yes, that's to be expected," said Bridget, tracing her thumb along the back of his hand. "The doctor thinks you'll be able to come home tomorrow, as long as you remain stable, but you'll need to rest for a few—"  
"Bridget, I don't want to talk about it." He withdrew his hand from Bridget's and averted his gaze. "I'm not going to be hovered over like some convalescent pensioner."  
"Mark," Bridget said sternly, "you've got to be careful of your health. Just because the earth rotates round the sun at 1,037 MPH, that doesn't mean you have to do the same." Mark maintained a stony silence. In need of something to do with her hands, Bridget reached out and smoothed his bedcovers. "Magda is here," she said after several moments of silence.  
"I don't require a visiting party," Mark said sharply.  
"For your information," Bridget said with a touch of impatience, "she popped round this afternoon, and she happened to be with me when—when Giles rang to tell me…what had happened. Lucky for me she was. I'd probably have lost my head otherwise. She insisted on driving me here."  
"I'm…glad you weren't alone," Mark said more gently. "Thank her for me."  
"I need to let the girls know you're all right. Eric offered to pick Emma up from her slumber party on his way to bring Anne home."  
"There's no need, surely," said Mark. "Let her stay."  
"I'd rather the girls be together," Bridget insisted. "Anne is rather upset."  
"Tell her not to worry," Mark said automatically, though unconvincingly.  
"I want to be there when they get home, but I can come back here once I've seen that they're settled if you want me to stay with you."  
"That won't be necessary," answered Mark.  
"I don't feel right just leaving you here," she said.  
"I think I'd rather be alone." Then, as if to soften the rebuff, he added, "No need to make the girls more anxious. I'm perfectly fine."  
Bridget patted his knee; then leaned in and pressed a kiss to his brow. "I'll be back first thing tomorrow," she promised. As she rose to leave, she felt a slight tug on her hand and turned back.  
"Bridget?" Mark was gazing tentatively at her.  
"What is it? Do you need anything?" she asked.  
"No, I just—" he swallowed and looked away. Watching his face register the conflict between his need for her and his desire to avoid succumbing entirely to this state of vulnerability, Bridget nodded in silent understanding.  
"Why don't I just keep you company for a bit?" she said, perching on the edge of the bed. Slipping her fingers through his, she gently traced her thumb across the back of his hand in rhythmic circles. When she felt his grip on her fingers begin to relax, she looked up to find his eyes closed. Smiling, she bent and pressed a kiss to his eyelids before gently releasing his hand and slipping from the room.

 

 

\----------  
The following Friday morning found Mark in his home office, yawning as he squinted bleary eyes at the screen of his laptop. He had naturally wanted to return to work immediately upon his release from hospital despite the insistence of both his wife and his colleagues that he take a few days for himself. In an effort to appease everyone else and prevent himself from going mad, he settled on working from home for a week. By an unspoken agreement, the family said nothing of the events of the previous Saturday, and aside from the fact that Mark was home during the day, their routines remained largely unchanged. Bridget left for the studio in the morning; the girls slept late and ate a hurried breakfast before engaging in their regular summer activities with their friends. Anne had been more than usually reticent around Mark, owing, he suspected, to the subject of their disagreement before he'd left the house last Saturday. He knew he needed to speak to her, but on balance, he thought it best not to broach a topic of conversation that might trigger a rise in his blood pressure.  
Glancing at the clock above his desk and noting that it was nearly 10.00, Mark reached for his empty coffee cup and stood, deciding to refresh it. Bridget had taken today off, and so more than likely she had made a second pot. He'd just poured himself a steaming cupful and turned to exit the kitchen when he heard a ring at the bell. Nervously combing his fingers through his hair as he padded to the front door, Mark hoped the caller wasn't anyone from the office, though he suspected one of his colleagues would have given him warning before coming round. Peering through the front window, he was surprised to see Eric's car parked in front of the house.  
"Eric, hello," Mark said pleasantly as he opened the door. "Won't you come in?"  
The boy shook his head. "Thank you, but I can't stay. I only dropped by to return Anne's sunglasses. She left them in my car yesterday." He pulled them out of his pocket and handed them to Mark.  
"Thank you. I'll see that she gets them. Are you sure you wouldn't like to stay? Anne will be down soon, I expect."  
"Thank you, but no," replied Eric.  
"Well, we'll see you tomorrow night then," said Mark. "For the party."  
Eric nodded. "We're very much looking forward to it." He stood awkwardly in the doorway for several moments, examining his trainer laces before saying, "Mr. Darcy, I just…wanted to apologize if I caused any trouble last weekend. My parents were planning to speak to you and Mrs. Darcy about everything tomorrow, but Anne and I thought it mightn't be a good idea to just spring it on you like that. I thought perhaps if Anne talked with you about it first—gave you time to think—well…" His voice trailed off, and he resumed studying his laces.  
"I appreciate that, Eric," Mark said gently. "We haven't had an opportunity to discuss things, but we certainly will." Eric nodded. "Are you absolutely sure you won't stay?"  
"I really can't. Tell Anne I'll ring later."  
"Of course. See you tomorrow, Eric." As the boy turned toward his car, he paused, glancing hesitantly back at Mark. "Mr. Darcy?"  
"Yes?"  
"I wouldn't hurt her for the world, you know. Anne, I mean."  
Mark smiled. "I know your intentions are honorable," he replied. "Don't be concerned about that."  
"Right. Well…" Eric shuffled his feat uncomfortably. "I'll be going then. Bye."  
"Goodbye, Eric."  
\----------  
"Was that someone at the door?" asked Bridget as she entered his office several minutes later, his forgotten cup of coffee in her hand.  
"It was Eric. He just came round to bring by Anne's sunglasses. She forgot them in his car, apparently." As he reached to take the coffee cup from Bridget's hand, he paused to study her; her hair was still damp from her recent shower, and her face was, for the moment, free of make-up. Wordlessly he reached down and slipped her into his arms, covering her mouth with his. When he was finished, he raised his head and took a moment to enjoy the surprised, slightly dazed look of wonderment in her blue eyes that nearly twenty years of marriage had never entirely managed to dispel. Perhaps the recent conversation with his daughter's boyfriend was having a nostalgic effect on his senses, or perhaps it was the fact that his and Bridget's lovemaking had of late been somewhat lacking in frequency, but he suddenly felt more energetic than he had in weeks.  
"What was that for?" asked Bridget.  
"I didn't think I needed a reason," he replied.  
"You don't. It's just, well—"  
"Well what?" Mark prompted.  
"You just…haven't been quite yourself lately."  
"Hmm, is that so?" Mark's palms tingled as he took hold of Bridget's hips and drew her closer. He ran his hands up and down her sides before, with a swiftness that made her draw in her breath, he gathered her up in his arms and carried her over to the sofa. Bridget just managed to kick the door shut as she passed.  
"I thought you were instructed to take things easy for a while," she said as Mark deposited her onto the supple leather. "No strenuous physical activity."  
"Fuck that," he growled against her throat. Bridget reached up and pulled his face toward hers to kiss him at the same time he began to yank her top over her head. In the resulting tussle, they rolled onto the carpet in a heap of limbs and laughter. Pausing only to peel away his shirt and lower the zip on his trousers with scrabbling fingers, Bridget pulled Mark's head to her breast and wove her fingers through his hair as his mouth found her left nipple. As she reached out and took him in her hand, he moaned inaudibly, his voice muffled against her skin. When she shifted beneath him, her hip bumping his erection, he nudged her thighs apart, raised his head, and clamped his mouth on hers, savoring the sweetness of her pleasure as he drove himself into her. When it was over, he dropped his head between her breasts with a shuttering sigh. As he was drifting off to sleep, still sprawled across her breasts, he felt a sharp poke in the ribs.  
"Ouch! Bridget!"  
"I think you'll definitely be returning to chambers on Monday," said Bridget, her blue eyes twinkling with amusement. "There are far too many distractions for you here."  
"On the contrary," replied Mark, "I can't recall the last time I worked quite so hard." Rolling onto his side, he pulled Bridget to his chest and rested his chin on the top of her head.  
"I should probably, urm, let you get back to work. Before the girls come looking for us."  
"The girls know not to…disturb me when this door is closed," replied Mark. "Besides, I haven't decided whether or not I'm quite finished with you."  
"What's got into you?" Bridget giggled as he began nibbling on her ear. "Perhaps your little chit-chat with Eric made you nostalgic for the budding romance of our younger years?"  
"If that's your delicate way of informing me that the bloom has faded from our lovemaking," began Mark, but Bridget tilted her head up to peck him on the lips.  
"Of course not," she soothed. "In any case, I'd hope Anne and Eric aren't—"  
"If you don't mind, we'll leave that sentence unfinished," Mark said quickly. "There are some things a father prefers not to think about, thank you."  
"Well, since we're on the subject, I take that to mean you haven't spoken to her about Brighton."  
"I…haven't found the time," said Mark.  
"Or you've been avoiding it."  
"Perhaps I have," he murmured. Sighing, he raised himself into a sitting posture and drew his knees to his chest, gazing into space.  
"Mark?" Bridget sat up and scooted closer to him, reaching for his hand.  
"Hmm?"  
"Mark, are you all right?"  
"I wish everyone would stop asking me that. I'm fine."  
Bridget withdrew her hand from his and glared up at him. "You aren't," she said simply. "And I wish you'd stop pretending you are. What's got into you?" Mark maintained a stony silence. "Is this about your—you know…what happened last week?"  
Mark's jaw tensed. "Bridget, for the last time, please stop harping on that."  
"Mark, I'm worried about you," she protested.  
"And I've told you a hundred times—"  
"Not to worry; that you can look after yourself, because Heaven forbid anyone but Mark should ever offer to take care of Mark."  
"Well, in case it's escaped your notice, I'm rather a bit too preoccupied to give much thought to myself at the moment," he snapped.  
"News bulletin. Mark Darcy is too busy trying to solve everyone else's problems to think about himself." Her expression suddenly softening, Bridget slid her arms around him and rested her head against his shoulder. "Mark, talk to me. Please. What's really bothering you? Is it about Anne?"  
"Perhaps."  
Bridget lifted her head and looked directly at him. "Mark, don't you think you're being a bit ridiculous about this whole thing? I need hardly point out that you don't exactly need unnecessary stress in your life at the moment."  
"Being ridiculous about upholding my moral principles?" he asked. "No, I don't think so."  
Bridget rested her chin in her hands and regarded him intently. "I'm just guessing here, but this has nothing to do with your humanitarian conscience agonizing over men like Eric's father taking advantage of batty old ladies who haven't got enough money to buy cat food. That's just your attempt to rationalize your reaction so you don't actually have to think about the real reason this is making you so uncomfortable."  
"And that is?" he inquired coolly.  
"Your paternal instincts."  
"Bridget, that's entirely—you're missing the—"  
"Missing the point?" Bridget shook her head. "No, I don't think so. Mark, you have such a good heart, and probably the strictest moral compass of any man I've ever met. It's the main reason you're so talented at what you do, but that passion is driven by logic. I mean, you can only care so much about people, and then you have to start thinking practically about how to protect them and their interests. You tend to operate on the same frequency when it comes to the girls, and even me sometimes," she added with a smile.  
Mark swallowed. "She's so young," he whispered finally.  
"She's not a child, Mark."  
"She's not an adult," he insisted wearily, feeling like he'd worn this patch of mental ground ragged.  
"Legally she is," Bridget pointed out.  
"Yes, and she's always displayed excellent maturity, but she can be so…"  
"Innocent?"  
"Sometimes. I suppose that's what comes of raising a daughter on a steady diet of Austen and Bronte."  
"Anne's a sensible girl. She's not likely to do anything foolish."  
"We all thought that when we were her age. I just keep thinking of what Eric said to me earlier—that he'd never hurt her for the world. I keep turning it over and over in my mind, the sincerity of those words, because he truly believed them, and yet…"  
"Mark, you can't protect her from every scoundrel lurking round every corner, and for what it's worth, I don't think Eric is showing us any Wickham or Crawford-like tendencies."  
Mark offered a reluctant smile. "No, you're right, and I know I won't always be there to protect her, as I've so recently been reminded." They sat in silence for several minutes, Bridget gently rubbing Mark's hand between her own.  
"You think we should let her go, don't you?"  
Bridget chewed thoughtfully on her bottom lip. "If you really feel strongly about not permitting it, I won't set myself against you," she said finally.  
"Very diplomatic of you."  
"I think we should talk to the Wentworths," Bridget suggested. Mark nodded. "And I think you should talk to your daughter."  
\----------  
Mark stood at the doors to the back garden and let his eyes wander over the myriad of party attendees that had spilled outside from the house. They milled about the lawn, balancing drinks and plates of refreshments. Most of his and Bridget's friends and colleagues were among those who had sought refuge out of doors; inside, most of Anne's friends congregated. Strains of music and youthful laughter drifted through the partially opened doors and swirled in the balmy summer air. Jude stood deep in conversation with Sharon, whose empty wine glass offered a probable explanation for the fact that she was leaning rather heavily on her husband's arm. Mark was surprised to see Anne in the midst of the older guests, surrounded by a small knot of her closest friends, Eric beside her. Mark had, for once, decided to refrain from expressing his input on his daughter's attire, and indeed, aside from the fact that the neckline of her gown revealed slightly more of her bosom than he would have preferred to see, the soft, blue satin hugged her form most flatteringly. While he hadn't failed to notice that Eric's eyes occasionally strayed to Anne's chest, more often his gaze met hers, and his fingers brushed the back of her hand now and then in a gesture reminiscent of one occasionally exchanged between Mark and Bridget.  
"They do make a striking couple, don't they?" said a voice, and Mark withdrew his gaze from his daughter and turned to see his mother crossing the lawn toward him. Elaine Darcy held a champagne flute in one hand; the other she linked through her son's arm as she drew near.  
"Ah, Mother." Mark smiled. "I'm afraid I've hardly spoken to you all evening. Are you enjoying yourself?"  
"Yes, it's a lovely party, Mark," replied Elaine.  
"Where's Father?" Though in recent years, Malcolm Darcy had been slowly succumbing to Parkinson's, he remained as active as his energy permitted. Both of Mark's parents, in fact, had, like everything else they did, settled gracefully into their elderly years.  
"I've left him in capable hands," said Elaine, gesturing with her champagne. Mark followed her waving hand to where his father sat beside Bridget, who held his hand as she chatted to him, occasionally adjusting the blanket thrown across his lap despite the warm evening. The touch of his mother's hand on his arm pulled Mark away from his contemplation of the scene, and he turned to look directly at her.  
"Mark," she said gently. "What's the matter?" Mark said nothing. Elaine searched her son's face intently, nodding when she noticed his gaze fixed on Anne again. "Ah, of course." After a moment's hesitation, she offered, "Don't you think you're being rather inflexible?"  
"Mother, I don't wish to discuss this," Mark replied glibly.  
"Hmm," murmured Elaine.  
"What?"  
"Nothing. It's just, well," she sighed. "Mark, you're my son, and I love you, but I must be honest, your attitude about this whole situation is hurting your daughter."  
"Mother, I can't possibly allow her to—"  
"To what? Mark, Anne is a sensible young woman, and she's in love with a perfectly lovely young man."  
"She thinks she is," said Mark.  
"Well, when you're eighteen, it amounts to much the same thing."  
'Yes,' Mark thought. Hadn't he said more or less the same thing to Giles? Of course, Giles had been on his side, which made all the difference.  
"I just worry about her. The intensity of her emotions combined with a rather…unrestricted environment might, well," Mark sighed. "I just don't want her making a mistake she might regret for the rest of her life."  
Elaine sniffed. "Of course, because _you_ never made any mistakes in your own relationships."  
"Mother, I don't—"  
"You don't like being reminded of your imperfections, yes. This is hardly news to the woman who gave birth to you, Mark."  
"I think," said Mark, "that the events of last weekend just served to remind me that, well, I'm not going to be around forever and…however much I wish I could, I can't always protect her, and I suppose I've been trying to hold on to the part of her heart that's, well, still mine."  
With an understanding smile, Elaine slipped an arm around his waist. "Mark," she said gently, "letting go is never easy for a parent, but it can be far easier to do it gradually now, while you have the choice, than to be, well, forced to do it without any preparation. Wouldn't you like the security of being able to watch her try her wings and take comfort in knowing that somehow, she will be able to survive, even when that parental safety net is no longer there?"  
Mark swallowed. "I suppose so, and I know I can't prevent every mistake she might make."  
"And you wouldn't want to," said Elaine. "Sometimes the reason we have to make mistakes is so that we can better appreciate the triumph of getting it right."  
Thinking of his own mistakes—his disastrous first marriage—and how the paths down which his life had taken him had, mistakes and all, eventually led to Bridget, Mark smiled. "You're right, Mother. As always. Thank you."  
Elaine squeezed his arm affectionately. "Well, someone has to look out for you. You children get to be middle-aged, and you think you know everything." Smiling, she reached up and patted his cheek. "I think I'll return to your father now and let Bridget see to your guests."  
Mark nodded. "Yes, of course."  
Alone again, he wandered back indoors and helped himself to another drink before returning to the drawing-room, which had been rearranged to accommodate dancing. He spotted Anne and Eric talking quietly in a corner and, catching his eye, she reached up to whisper something in his ear before detaching herself from him and weaving through the throng of guests toward her father.  
"Dad, I've hardly seen you and Mum all evening," she said a little breathlessly. Her cheeks were pink from dancing, and her eyes sparkled with laughter. "In case I haven't said it enough, thank you again for everything. It's been really wonderful."  
"I'm glad to see you so happy," he said gently. As the music changed from an upbeat number to something of a slower tempo, he held out his hand. "Would you do your dear old dad the honor of this dance?" Smiling up at him, Anne took his offered hand. "I'm glad the evening has been a success," he said as he drew his daughter into his arms.  
"It really has been. Everyone's really enjoying themselves. I hope you and Mum are too."  
"We're enjoying seeing you happy," said Mark, giving her hand a squeeze.  
"Eric told me you spoke with his parents," Anne said suddenly without preamble. Mark nodded. They had; early in the evening, before most of the other guests had arrived, Mark and Bridget had spoken with the Wentworths about their proposed gift.  
"We did, yes," he replied.  
"And?"  
"First, I want to apologize. I should have been more transparent with you about my reservations."  
"I knew why you didn't feel comfortable with the idea," said Anne. "But I wished we could have talked about it. That was why I got so frustrated. Instead of just being honest with me about your concerns, you sort of…hid behind some weird rationalization that was pretty ridiculous if you think about it."  
"I know. I wasn't as open-minded about the situation as I might have been," agreed Mark.  
"I felt terrible about arguing with you, especially after, you know, mum rang and told me about your—you being in hospital. I hated thinking that you had me to worry about on top of everything that already makes your life stressful."  
Suddenly overcome, Mark pulled her closer and bent to kiss the top of her head, furiously blinking away the moisture in his eyes. "Oh, Anne girl," he whispered. "I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have lost my temper with you like that."  
Anne rested her head against his shoulder. "I'm sorry too, Dad."  
"The truth is," Mark continued, bringing his hand up to caress her cheek, "you've always been such a clever girl. I was counting on you to understand the position I was coming from without me having to say as much. There were so many things I wanted to say to you—so many things I wanted you to understand, but then gradually I realized that there's only so much about the world you can learn from me or your mother, that most of life's lessons you figure out on your own. Sometimes parents forget that. So I think that ultimately all I really need have told you was…be careful."  
"Does this mean you're giving your consent then?" asked Anne.  
"Well, yes, I suppose it does," said Mark. Anne reached up and hugged him tightly. "Conditionally," he added.  
"I know," laughed Anne. "Eric told me his father said you wouldn't let him pay for the entire trip."  
"Let's just say we're dividing the expenses, and leave it at that."  
"Fair enough."  
"Just promise me you'll complete your education before you get entirely carried away with romantic nonsense."  
Anne laughed. "I won't lose sight of the importance of improving my mind by extensive reading."  
"Well, yes, but seriously, don't just attach yourself to the first young man who comes along simply because he gives you a bit of encouragement."  
"No matter what Grannie Pam might have to say on the subject."  
"Yes, well, your grandmother has her own ideas about such things," Mark said delicately. Anne leaned in for another hug, raising herself on tiptoe to peck her father's cheek.  
"I love you, Dad," she whispered. Mark closed his eyes and held her to his chest for a moment.  
"I love you too," he whispered into her hair. "So very, very much."  
\----------  
"I think that went off rather well, don't you?" Mark glanced up from his book as Bridget emerged from the bathroom and climbed into bed beside him. She pulled the duvet up around her shoulders and snuggled up to him with a sigh of contentment.  
"Yes, I think it was a success," he replied, closing his book and bending to drop a kiss on the top of her head.  
"Are you ready to return to chambers on Monday?" she asked.  
"As ready as I'll ever be, and for the record, I was ready last week."  
"Well, for the record, I think this past week at home has done you a world of good," said Bridget, skimming her fingertips over his arm. "You look remarkably better." He merely shrugged in acknowledgement of her words. "Mark?"  
"Hmm?"  
"Mark, if there's, well, something bothering you, you'll tell me, won't you?"  
He considered for a moment; then turned over onto his side to face his wife. "Bridget," he said gently, cupping her cheek in one hand, "I'm sorry. Bloody Hell, I've been saying that far too much lately."  
"Does it leave a bitter taste in your mouth, Mr. Perfect?" Bridget teased.  
"I'm growing accustomed to it," he answered. "I think I was just, well, a bit more shaken by what happened than I wanted to admit. It seemed easier to just dismiss it as nothing. There I was, talking to Giles about Anne, and the next thing I knew—" he swallowed. Bridget reached out and took his hand.  
"When Giles called me, I couldn't think. Not knowing fully what the situation was, well, I was just glad Magda was there with me. I'd have lost my head otherwise."  
Mark squeezed her fingers gently. "It probably sounded much worse than it was in actuality. I'm sorry, Love."  
"Don't be," whispered Bridget, squeezing him tightly. "Thank goodness it wasn't nearly as bad as it might have been. You have to promise me you're going to take better care of yourself though. I want you around forever. I'm holding you to that."  
Mark chuckled. "I'm afraid my great legal brain forbids me entering into such an agreement when I couldn't possibly honor the terms. I am, however, prepared to negotiate with you for, let's say, another few decades."  
Bridget tilted her head up to peck him on the lips. "I love you, Mark."  
"And I love you, my Bridget."  
As he reached up to switch off the reading lamp, Bridget asked, "So, what really made you change your mind about Anne? You didn't seem quite comfortable with it even after we talked to the Wentworths."  
"It was my mother, believe it or not," said Mark. "She just has a very sensible way of putting things."  
"For what it's worth, I do think Anne is as much in love with Eric as a girl can be at her age," said Bridget. "Whether or not it lasts isn't really the point; it's about discovering what it means to love and about making mistakes so she can truly appreciate what she has when she gets it right."  
"Funny, but my mother said almost precisely that," murmured Mark, gently stroking Bridget's back.  
"Did she really?"  
"Yes, and she's right. My own experiences are a testament of that."  
"And have you finally got it right in the end?" Bridget asked playfully, rolling over and slipping her arms around his neck.  
"You know," he said, cupping her face in his hands, "I think I have."

The End


End file.
